


Delicate and Damaged Dexter

by knightinpinkunderwear



Series: Dexter Morgan get more therapy challenge [3]
Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Breakfast, Childhood Trauma, Cussing, Dexter wants to be a dad, Everyone is worrying about Dexter, Explicit Language, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Not Canon Compliant, POV Alternating, POV Third Person, Pancakes, Panic Attacks, Past Character Death, Season/Series 01, Talking, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:01:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25623322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightinpinkunderwear/pseuds/knightinpinkunderwear
Summary: Rita and Deb treat him like he's delicate, a fragile little teacup that's been broken before and cracking again where it had been poorly glued together. What's even worse, is that they might be right, maybe he is vulnerable.
Relationships: Debra Morgan & Dexter Morgan, Rita Bennett & Debra Morgan, Rita Bennett/Dexter Morgan
Series: Dexter Morgan get more therapy challenge [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1799461
Comments: 14
Kudos: 65





	Delicate and Damaged Dexter

**Author's Note:**

> The aftermath of his panic-attack at Rita's. Featuring a little bit of Astor and Dexter bonding.

Dexter Morgan slowly comes back to himself while crying. 

He doesn't remember ever crying for real before. Even when he'd wanted to. He knows that he has good reason to cry, but he hasn't yet figured out what that is. Everything is too intense and awful when it comes with the blood. He can't think about it when it's happening and he can hardly think after it happens.

Rita and Deb are there. Each holding one of his hands. His forearms and palms are wrapped up in gauze and tape. 

He knows there's blood underneath it, red, sticky, awful blood. He can distantly feel the pain and the tacky texture of blood drying beneath bandages. He doesn't really remember how it happened, only that he'd broken a glass and the blood had come and swallowed his world in red and screams.

"Dexter?" Someone asks, it's either Deb or Rita but he feels too far away to tell what the voice sounds like or where it came from. 

"I'm here," he answers, quietly, feeling the room come into focus.

His sister and his girlfriend handle him like he's a fragile little teacup that took a tumble out of the cupboard like they're carefully trying to piece him back together. It feels familiar. 

Harry had done this for him before when he was too small and young to help himself or even begin to cope with the memories of blood and the awful stickiness and the-

"Hey, you, are you with us?" It's Rita. If he could he might want to smile. If he didn't feel so... _so..._

Dexter isn't sure what he's feeling, only that it was like a pit growing in his stomach, and he wasn't sure whether the pit was a hole or like a peach-pit, heavy and poisonous magnifying itself in weight with each shaky breath he took. 

Dexter nods, he isn't sure if he wants to try talking around the sore lump in his throat. Did it always hurt like that when someone cried? He wouldn't know, he doesn't ever remember crying like this.

He is led to sit on the couch. Slow and shaky steps on heavy legs. He can vaguely hear Paul down the hallway, enthusiastically reading Astor and Cody a bedtime story.

Rita and Deb are so gentle with him. As if they are scared that he's so delicate that he might just break more in their care. He isn't sure if the fear is unfounded.

He'd always known that he was damaged somehow, but knowing of numbed scar tissue is different than feeling the raw edges of wounds reopened. For the first time, or maybe the second time now, he feels broken instead of simply knowing it.

He'd known there was some part of him missing, like a wind-up toy without springs, he couldn't naturally function like every other person. He mimicked. He had been aware of his missing piece or pieces almost all of his life, but now he could feel the places where they'd been carved out of him. But he still doesn't know what specifically was taken from him, for him to have lost his innocence and ability to fit in and relate to others, to be content.

Harry said he'd been there when his parents died. But Harry lied about Joe Driscoll. But he always looked so uncomfortable with Deb brought up the subject. And he'd acted relieved that Dexter had never remembered anything before his foster family.

He was the boy in the blood. Dexter knows it without a doubt. He remembers being so violently scared and so sad and-

Someone squeezes his hands. His hands are being held. He will be safe.

Dexter breathes, "Biney," he whispers on the exhale, hearing the echo of the little boy speaking in time with him.

"What?" Rita asks, he isn't sure if she didn't hear him or if she was just confused.

"Dex?" Debra prompts him, he can't say anything, can't explain. Inexplicably, he wants to cry. His eyes are still stinging and the lump in his throat is tightening. 

"Do you want to talk?" 

He frowns, he doesn't know. He'd never been the creature needing comfort, not since he was younger than Cody. And Harry had drilled it into his head so many times, Dexter was allowed to be honest with no one but him. Harry was the only one who could handle the monster, the dark passenger inside of him. 

"Do you want to _not_ talk?" Debra asks when he doesn't respond.

"I'm ...neutral," Dexter replies, slowly. His throat hurts like only his esophagus and windpipe had been crushed from the inside, without anything touching his neck. It is a mildly bizarre feeling. Though he supposed it wouldn't seem as strange if he remembered feeling it more.

Rita and Deb are still holding his wrists, with the back of his hands cradled in their palms. Careful with the damage he stupidly and accidentally inflicted on himself.

"Do you want some water?" Rita's voice is so gentle, her gaze too, the quiet determination and concern in the tilt of her head and the line of her mouth. Her blue-green eyes are calming, like the blue-green of the ocean. Almost the exact opposite of the awful red of blood.

"No," he answers, soft as a hum.

"Dexter, do you know what happened just now?"

"I broke a glass and the blood... it was everywhere and the _smell-_ "

Debra squeezes his right hand, Rita squeezes his left. He is safe, he _will be_ safe.

"...the boy came back and I remembered being him, screaming and crying, sitting in blood," he takes a breath, shaky and burning, "And I needed to cry now too,"

He thinks Rita's heart might be breaking by the way she looks at him, Deb's too. He isn't used to being the subject of such concern and actually feeling some way that warranted concern. Harry was the only one who'd seen him in moments when he wanted comfort. When he'd questioned if he could ever feel human.

Now he feels. It is overwhelming and horrible and uncomfortable, and it is still somehow, hollow.

* * *

Debra listens and feels an awful kind of helplessness and a whole lot of anger. She hopes to God whoever did whatever awful things to her brother, in front of him, is dead. Because if they weren't... she didn't know what she would do but it sure as Fuck wasn't gonna be pretty. 

"Why did you need to cry?" Deb asks. She has an icky feeling that she already knows the answer. 

"I don't know," Dexter says, and he isn't lying. It was hard to think about things when it was your feelings and memories you were trying to make sense of. Deb had the advantage of only being his sister and not remembering some traumatic shit from when he was a toddler. 

She didn't know much but she was under the impression that if a kid completely forgot about a bad thing that happened to them, it was forgotten for a good fucking reason. 

And Dad had said that Dexter was there when his parents, or at least his bio-mom died. She was pretty sure that telling Dex that would be a bad idea. He was already remembering terrible shit, he didn't need her to make it all come back at once.

Paul leaves and Rita goes to check to make sure her kids are asleep. Dex doesn't say anything or look at anything besides the carpet and where she's holding his hands. 

Dex doesn't want to talk anymore and Rita suggests he sleep there. Deb is relieved, she doesn't know how she would get him to her place, as there's no way in fuck she was gonna let him stay alone after that. 

Debra is also invited to stay the night.

Rita, the wonder or patience and compassion that she is, sits up with her at the kitchen table, watching Dex on the couch. 

He's passed out and about as conscious as a rock. 

Deb hopes it's a restful sleep because it was looking like tomorrow would be rough. She was gonna get him into counseling or therapy or whatever the fuck they called it. 

Two panic attacks in just as many days as well as self-harm (whether he meant to or not) was not something he could deal with on his own. Hopefully, she didn't have to ream him too much before he accepted that she wouldn't budge on the therapy thing. 

Hell, he'd probably needed therapy when he was a kid, but Dad wasn't great at handling their emotional needs anyway. 

She was wondering about dead moms and whatever the fuck a Biney was when Rita snapped her out of her thoughts. 

"Do you know what happened to him?" She starts, "Why he was talking about a little boy? I know he was adopted but-" she's worrying too much. Not that Rita could or would worry less. Dexter's kinda fucked up. 

Deb took a deep breath, steeling herself; "All I know is that Dex was put into foster care with my parents when he was like three and that he was there when his real parents died," she remembered Dad and social workers alike asking Dex about if he remembered anything before his third birthday. He never had. 

"Oh God," Rita covers her mouth in horror, her brows pinching together. 

"Dex blacked it out or something, but I think he's remembering it now," 

"Poor thing," she glances sadly towards the couch where Dexter sleeps. 

"Yeah, I'm gonna get him to talk to a professional tomorrow, fuck work," Debra decides. Her brother needs help and she's going to make sure he gets it ASAP. They could deal with the Ice-Truck Killer without her for another day. 

"That's good." Rita nods. And the silence hanging over them settles into something less intrusive and less heavy. It just is. She convinces Rita to go to bed, she has work tomorrow, and if not that she still needs to get her kids to school in the morning.

Debra sits in the quiet for a few hours, sends Rudy a few texts to let him know she is okay and that he doesn't need to worry about her or Dex.

She turns off all the lights except the one over the stove, then she sits in the armchair by the couch and watches over her big brother from that angle. He jerks once or twice and she reaches for his hand, holds it through whatever nightmares plague him.

She doesn't wake him up, any sleep is better than being woken up. Besides, she knew just how bad it was to be shaken out of a nightmare. She'd decked Dex in the face the first time he'd done that when they slept over at grandma's. They are twelve and eight. She didn't want to be on the wrong side of a scared Dexter, especially not after he took those judo or jujitsu (whichever it was) classes in Med School.

* * *

Astor is the first one to wake up in the morning. Eight-year-olds were always awake before six-year-olds. Or maybe sisters were always up before brothers.

Either way, she was up and changing into her school clothes fifteen minutes before breakfast needed to be made and eaten.

She needed to finish her decimal homework before breakfast. Otherwise, she wouldn't be able to put it in the homework bin for Ms. Rows. And Astor couldn't miss a homework, she was in third grade now, and she couldn't stay in piano if her grades didn't stay good. As much as piano class was boring and annoying, if she kept going she could play really fancy things on stage someday. All the good piano players started when they were kids.

Dexter was on the couch, sleeping. And Debra was in the big chair, holding his hand, also sleeping.

Dexter has white badages wrapped against his arms, like Dad does for his head. She wonders how Dexter hurt himself so bad, and if he'd also need to go to the hospital. 

"Astor, honey?" Mom whispers from behind, touching her shoulder.

Astor turns away from the couch. 

"Dexter and his sister need to sleep in today, so we're going to leave them be and be quiet, okay?"

"So I'll finish my homework at the kitchen table?"

"Yes, Astor, that's a good idea,"

"Mom, can we have pancakes with bananas?" Dexter liked his pancakes with bananas, maybe that would make him feel better about getting hurt, and whatever else happened to him last night. All Astor knew was that he was hurt and upset enough that he needed help from both Mom and his sister Debra. 

Astor wasn't sure how much the job of little sister was different than big sister but she knew that sisters were supposed to comfort brothers when they got hurt or scared. And she knew that food made her and Cody feel better when they were upset or hurt, so it would probably make Dexter feel better too. 

Cody stumbled into the kitchen trying to be quiet but not doing a very good job. Astor wanted to be annoyed but he really was trying. And six-year-olds weren't that good at being quiet. 

At least he didn't bother her while she finished up her homework. She didn't feel like explaining decimals to him again. He still didn't understand fractions yet. 

But they didn't teach that much math in first grade so it wasn't all his fault. 

Her pancakes were finished as she put her homework back in the homework folder and then in her back pack. 

Mom says that they should eat their food first becuase they have school and becuase Dexter still hasn't woken up. 

Mom doesn't want to wake him up. She wants Dexter to sleep and feel better on his own first. Mom is very good at taking care of people like that. 

Dexter's sister Debra wakes up as Cody cuts his pancakes. She slept funny on the chair and starts whispering and complaining about her back and her neck. She does some weird stretches too. 

Adults are always talking about how sleeping on the couch or in a chair makes their body weird and hurt. Astor isn't sure if it's becuase they're old or if it's becuase they're bigger. Maybe it's both. 

Debra gets blueberries and bananas in her pancakes and she eats them standing at the counter, looking back at Dexter every few bites. 

Mom makes and eats her pancakes before he wakes up. 

Dexter's pancakes are made last. Astor helps (and Cody tries to help too but he is too little and too six-years-old to be very helpful). 

She wakes up Dexter with a pat on his shoulder after setting down his pancakes on the short table in front of the couch that she usually did her homework at in the mornings. 

Dexter has sad and sleepy eyes when he wakes up. But he puts on a small smile anyway. Astor thinks it is dumb that adults smile when they don't feel alright, but maybe that's something she'll learn is important when she is more adult-aged. 

"We made you pancakes with extra bananas," Astor says and Cody runs over to nod. Even though he only stirred the bananas in. 

"Thank you," Dexter sits up, gently rubbing his hands over the bandages covering his palms to a little higher than his elbows. He must've hurt himself a lot to need that much bandages. 

"Promise you'll feel better soon?" Cody asks, being rude in a six-years-old way.

"I'll try," Dexter says with a little laugh, holding up his pinky like he was going to pinky promise. 

"Alright guys, time for school, Colleen's outside to drive you," Mom calls from the dinner table. 

"Feel better soon!" Astor shouts as she hurries out the door with her back pack and Cody in tow. 

* * *

Dexter was a little confused when he woke up. It took a few moments for him to realize where he was and what had happened the night before. 

Astor and Cody were the ones to wake him. They made him pancakes and wanted him to feel better. 

They wanted him to feel better. _Huh_. It felt ...nice. 

He thought that with their Dad around they wouldn't like him as much. What did they need their mom's boyfriend around when they had a real father? 

A real father who was really human, even if he was troubled and rude. 

He thanks them and promises to try to feel better and they run out the door. 

And he feels like he's been hit by a whirlwind. Confused and messy and kind of bad but also kind of good. 

_Does he want to be a father?_

Dexter shakes his head, there are too many things going on in his head to take on another question. 

"You better eat those," Deb glares, the possible threat of making him eat them in her eyes. She was definitely not above pushing the fork to his mouth if she deemed it necessary. 

Dexter nods, cutting into the pancakes (with extra bananas). They're good. And maybe they taste better even if the bananas are not evenly distributed and one side is over done. It feels familiar and it feels nice; Rita's kids remember his favorite breakfast food. They wanted to comfort him. 

Rita leaves, presubably to change into her work uniform. Deb sits next to him on the couch, watching him eat, eyes drifting to the off-white bandages that take up half of his arms.

He must have really done a number on them, they're sore, and stick uncomfortably to the gauze, almost like the feeling of duct tape on skin. He can feel scabs and open wounds being pulled at and the grainy texture of dried blood. 

But at least the gauze covers up the smell and the color. 

"I'm taking the day off," Deb says.

"Deb, you don't have to-" he starts, a fork-full of pancake waiting in his grip. 

"I don't _have to worry_ about you? Bullshit," Debra grabs his wrist, making a show of the gauze and bandages wrapping up his arm.

She has a point. Dexter puts the fork with pancake in his mouth. If he is chewing he won't have to respond yet. 

Unfortunately that means that Debra can continue to argue her point without him interupting becuase Dexter _does not_ talk with his mouth full. 

"You need fucking therapy, _fuck_ , Dex, you probably needed it when we were kids," his sister continues, "I get that you didn't remember anything before but that doesn't mean it didn't leave you with issues,"

Dexter finishes chewing and swallows before he speaks; "You think I have issues?" He is mildy insulted, and worried, obviously he hasn't been blending in as well as Harry taught him to. 

"I love you, bro, but you are _weird_. And it isn't like this is the first time you've hurt yourself," Deb answers, voice steely and gaze cold with concern. A type of look that Dexter is sure only Debra is capable of. 

"Fine. I'll go to a few sessions and work out, whatever this is," he concedes, "But I'm not going to make any promises about if it will work,"

"If the first shrink doesn't work we'll get you another one, and another after that if it doesn't work out." Deb promises with an urgency and care in her eyes that makes Dexter feel guilty.

She only cares this much becuase she doesn't know what he really is. And that's for the best. He doesn't want to know what kind of hurt he would inflict upon her by letting her know the truth of him.

"Dex, I know you don't talk to me about shit, but _please_ , you gotta talk to someone," Debra pleads, and he agrees with her a little. Things had been easier when he could talk to their dad. Even if he won't be able to be completely honest with a therapist and uses woven half truths the whole time, his appointments with Dr. Meridian had been helpful. 

Even if he doesn't like how the idea of him _needing_ therapy makes him feel. 

He is not used to being damaged in any sort of delicate way. But he is starting to wonder if he'd always been ...fragile. 

**Author's Note:**

> Mission: Get Dexter into Therapy is moving along as scheduled.
> 
> Any suggestions for the name of the therapist(s) Dexter gets dragged to?


End file.
